


And just like that

by westminsterabi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Femlock, Gen, Genderswap, short fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2015-08-14
Packaged: 2018-04-14 15:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4570287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westminsterabi/pseuds/westminsterabi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Jane rent a movie together, and Sherlock remembers their first kiss. One-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And just like that

**Author's Note:**

> Brief mention of sex, some sensuality, nothing too offensive. Hope you enjoy! This was sitting around as a possible chapter for Exalted Because They Are Useless, but after rereading it I decided it didn't fit with the tone of EBTAU anymore and thought I'd post it as a one-shot! I recommend listening to the soundtrack of A Single Man while you read, if you have access. :)
> 
> Title is from one of Abel Korzeniowski's tracks.

About three months after Sherlock and Jane first kissed, and ten weeks after they’d admitted that not only were they attracted to, but also genuinely in love with each other, they rented _A Single Man_ and watched it together. Sherlock played the soundtrack on an air cello, closed her eyes and pressed her eyebrows together with an intensity that made Jane shiver. Then Jane offered Sherlock her arm, and she played on that for a while, her fingertips vibrating so rapidly that they blurred in the bluish half-light from the screen.

 

They sat on the floor, with Sherlock’s legs stretched out, her back against Jane’s armchair and Jane’s head in her lap. Every few minutes, Jane would tilt her head up, and Sherlock would lean hers down so they could share quick, wet, kisses. Once, Sherlock tasted saltwater.

 

She ran her fingers slowly but firmly through Jane’s chin-length blonde hair, then along her jawline and down to her collarbone. She stopped at the hollow of her throat, paused, wrapped her other arm tightly around Jane’s shoulders and sighed heavily, feeling her spine and arms prickle with electricity; she held her close, wanting nothing more than to feel Jane’s back pressed against her chest in that moment, and to listen her slow breathing and strong, measured heartbeat.

 

Closeness was a luxury, she thought. It was something she’d never thought she could possibly have, back when she thought Jane was straight and would never love her, not in the way she loved Jane. In the moment when she found out that Jane really loved her back, when the two of them together had leaned into each other’s eyes at the same moment, and after Sherlock had said _sorry_ and Jane had said _there’s nothing to be sorry for,_ and pressed her hand against the back of Sherlock’s head and caused waves of heat and tingling to ripple down Sherlock’s skull while she whispered _please do that again because if you don’t I think I will die from wanting you to_ while Sherlock stared into her dark-blue eyes, she could feel something break inside her own. She could feel something break and form again, and hoped Jane could see it deep inside her.

 

That feeling was more than happiness: it was the world being born again that London April, on the scuzzy couch in the Baker Street flat. It was everything she had ever imagined could be hers, and more, because she’d never thought Jane could belong to her and her alone. Yet here was that spark of hope, that electricity leaping between their lips and making Sherlock hear beautiful violin sonatas and see her own pure ecstasy personified in colour and sound, because something she had never dared let herself dream for, and yet that had invaded her every waking moment by slithering in, and that terrorized her in her in that those terrible few minutes between shut-eye and sleep, had finally come true.

 

It was every desperate thirst she’d ever had being quenched; it was like every piece that had ever been chipped away by her awful brother or her parents’ expectations or bullies at school had been found again, retrieved by the magnet that was Jane Watson, and returned to her. Although maybe not quite fixed, she was whole, fused back together by the glue _that was Jane Watson._

Although that part had taken longer. It had taken so many mornings waking up with their fingers interlaced or with Jane’s breath soft against her neck, or the gentle pushes when they had sex and the explosions of light and euphoria. Every morning they woke up in the same bed, as it turned from a treat to a habit and a habit to an arrangement, made one more piece return, and pushed it back in place with a satisfying crunch. If Sherlock had ever been a crier, the relief would have made her weep.

 

Sherlock stopped paying attention to the plot and started listening to the soundtrack, tuning out the dialogue, and thinking to all the times they had touched before _the_ touch; all the times that had sent painful sparks up Sherlock’s spine while the dark part of her brain whispered how she would always be alone, how Jane could never love her back.

 

But Jane did. The mournful cello notes sang in the air.

 

It was beautiful, to feel her skin pressed against Jane’s, even with their pyjamas in-between; to feel her brain’s little sigh of pleasure—oxytocin, she thought smugly, was better than heroin, and she’d never need another fix for as long as she lived, if Jane’s head stayed right there and she could forever and always press her lips against Jane’s forehead whenever she liked. 


End file.
